Subtle
by Festive
Summary: The logical sense of my brain is quickly being drowned by the desire that has been building within within me since years ago when I realized that it was no longer innocent idolism that I looked upon my master with..."


Disclaimers: I do not own Vassalord, only the arrangement of the words!  
Just another fan hoping for some more Cherry x Johnny action!

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Subtle would be a severe understatement for a certain man that I know, respect, find aggravating and call Master.

His demeanor is flippant, he pays very little attention to details and yet he never seems to miss any. When I find myself bold, angry or needy enough to look him straight in the eye, the warmth and the chill mixed together in such depthless enigmas captures me. For the century that I have known him, been with him…. Worshipped him it has never impacted me any less. It has not dulled with the passing of eras and ages, of new ideals and ideas. It crawls down my spine in inches, turns my insides into ice and liquid, pooling heat.

It infuriates me to no end.

The control he has but never uses over the fluctuation of my emotions, over my very being. He holds my reins in loose, gentle hands. Gentle only for me.

At least that is what I tell myself.

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Subtle might be used to describe scenes of frailty, of vulnerability with my Master. The Night has settled in and the lighting is supported by only a few candles that flicker in the cold breeze blowing through the open stone work veranda. Sheer curtains waft lazily, brushing against the pillars like ghostly finger tips against pale, cold skin.

I shiver.

The sky is beautiful tonight. Alive with constellations, the frameworks of the universe. I might have been inclined to take a more scholarly observation any other night, but this night I am not. I sit away just outside of the willowy gossamer fabrics reach and study something much more fascinating than a remote night sky or the droning glow of my laptop.

A candle flickers then dies, sending riveting shafts of soft light across an expanse of amber and cocoa polyester and bare skin then snuffs itself out, leaving more to the imagination than to the enraptured eyes.

My breathing is the only sound breaking this silence.

Warm, heavy silence.

I can feel the static in the air even though there is no thunder brewing, I can feel the sweat beading at my hair line, my temples. The last remaining parts of me that are human cannot express this feeling; the parts of me that are not cannot decipher it.

My hands twitch against the piece of machinery in my lap. I had been writing up a report to the Vatican about my latest exploits but I cannot seem to bring myself to write the next sentence. I can't even remember what it was.

Lounging languorously across the bed spread, eyeing me with the full knowledge that I am eyeing him back, my Master smiles with absent minded knowledge. He is foreign to me like this. The light softens the definitive lines of muscle and flesh that mark him as a man. I realize this but still find myself unable to look away.

There is a grace. A… A mystery, if you will to him that I cannot articulate for all of the words I have stored within the data base of my brain. There are no words that can describe my Master. But I will try.

I observe him.

He lies on his side; his head rests against a pillow propped ever so slightly by the arm that is underneath it. His hair is tricked into a lighter coloration by the candle light. It is an attractive mess where it splays in silky snarls like a sun burst against his head.

I want to touch it.

His skin is like crème mixed with the slightest tinge of coffee. Flawless. Unblemished. Large expanses of it are on display in front of me, the artist knows I like his work. He knows I will buy it. He tells me silently how the brush strokes create the shadows along the contours of his leg; he draws it up against his body and smiles into the pillow.

The line of his spine is like the tail of a cat. It shows when he is pleased. It arches ever so discreetly as he watches my eyes travel over his perfect feet, calf and thigh as if they were my hands. He likes having me like this. I like it to, but I refuse to admit it to myself.

The artist knows that I am stalling. Trying to find something wrong with his work. Considering its lofty price and wondering, although there is nothing to wonder about, if the product is worth the investment.

The sound of soft skin sliding against expensive fabric alerts me that he is moving, sliding onto his back. I look away when our eyes meet and almost verbally reprimand myself for giving in so easily when I peek back up immediately after.

He is trying a different tactic for my benefit. He already knows he's snagged my attention and purse. He is simply trying to get me to prove how badly it is that I want what he is offering me. He expresses mutely how the candle light in his work of art whispers against the skin, how it is like glowing finger prints in places that need to be touched, should be touched.

He mouths that his lips can do more than smile when he is happy or thin when he is angry. He hums that his voice can do more than chuckle and laugh at his singular and sole buyer's balking. He gestures that his hands can do more than hold a slowly smoldering cigarette between long fingers. He is telling me that his body is mine for the taking if only I would move to take it.

I shall consider my options and I know that the price I have to pay will be one I…. might regret. He watches me through heavily lidded eyes, his irises like wet amber and his smile like that of a cat locked in the creamery as I close my laptop and place it on the floor next to me. He has me.

He tilts his head back against the pillow as I walk to the edge of the bed and subtly frown down at him. He makes a face like he doesn't know what he's just done to deserve it, like he doesn't understand why he is being frowned at.

I frown harder.

He smiles brighter.

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"What's up, Cherry?" Master nonchalantly asks seemingly ignorant to the tension of our eyes meeting. Of the game that he has just won. Of the friction, the almost palpable waves of heat spreading between the close proximities of our flesh. I am standing beside the bed where he now lies looking up at me.

I cannot help but notice that the thin fabric of the sheet is barely draped across one thigh, his lower abdomen and pelvis, so I speak my protest "Master, cover yourself properly." His eyes slowly slide down to where I have looked but all he does is chuckle and slide his fingers lazily over to the sheets "But it's hot…."

It isn't hot. I almost say but I know he is trying to get a rise out of me.

"Of course it is." I say, defeated and look away. I can feel his eyes on me. Through my peripheral vision I can see him but I can also feel him and it is so much more acute. He looks at me looking away; he knows I am still watching him.

He always knows.

He looks at my face for a long while. I don't understand what it is that he sees that keeps his attention but whatever it is, it does. His eyes evaluate me, in my rare state of docility or stalling confusion, excavating every inch of open skin I display, which is not much. For as I said before. It is not hot.

But contradicting so quizzically is the metal throughout my anatomy remaining dead and cold with my human flesh, bone and muscle heating so rapidly. I try to focus on that and not the focal point of this spike in temperature. He is bored with simply watching me so he reaches his hand out and touches my own limp one.

"Cherry….?"

I will not go on with this farce. This game of a much less volatile cat and mouse. I kneel suddenly, my face a hands length from his own, capturing his hand and squeezing it. I am surprised myself at my own actions but I press on.

"Master what is it that you—"

But he does not let me finish. He reclaims his hand and my own with it back to himself and presses the cold metal to warm lips. I stare petrified, mesmerized. He kisses the steel hubs of my knuckles, the plated armor of my fingers, the synthetic fibers of my palm. His damp bottom lip sticks to the metal as he drags my hand away from his mouth to cradle it against his cheek.

He looks at me with subtle expectancy. A bead of sweat slides down the back of my neck and wraps a ring around my throat before being absorbed by the fabric of my dress shirt. It is normal that I hesitate, I lie to myself. This is my Master, he may be revered, he may be looked upon but he must not be touched.

Correction.

I must not allow myself to touch him with lust as my objective. I would further distance myself from God. I try to ignore the little voice that whispers in my head asking 'But who is your real god, Chris?'

I look at this man.

This creature of carnal sin and epitome of the deviation from all things Holy. Living or otherwise proof of what will happen when you defy a higher power. The logical sense of my brain is quickly being drowned by the desire that has been building within me since years ago when I realized that it was no longer innocent idolism that I looked upon my master with.

I had never allowed it to well so much that I actually found my ability to breathe impaired.

He opens his mouth and pushes my finger within and slides his forked tongue along the inner rivets that replace the joints of human hands. I find myself awkwardly jealous of this man made piece of equipment being caressed by such a sensitive organ, that part of me that is the result of my crusade against my Master's very kind.

My own kind.

Rightful punishment, I say to myself. An old mantra to quell any ill placed regret over the loss of limbs. Yes, I am no longer human. What of it?

I look at him and although pathetic, I know I look pleading. I am trying to convince myself as well as him that I don't want what he is offering. Trying to prove to myself that I do not feel the stirrings in my gut like a poker prodding the cooling embers of a fire. I am trying to get him to agree with me. He pushes his tongue between my fingers and scrapes his bottom teeth against my palm.

I choke out something inaudible and wrench my hand away from him, but I cannot control the urges any longer and I almost throw myself onto the bed, crawling over top of him and looking down with condemnation and love, some misguided sense of domination over my God.

But if there is one thing I have learned in my long life, it is that you cannot dominate 'God'.

He moves to accommodate me, almost as if he was expecting the silent outburst. He sighs onto his back and fits his legs neatly between my knees. My hands grip the sheets on either side of his head dangerously tight, a subconscious way of venting all of the building frustrations in a less violent or… appeasing way.

For now, that voice whispers again.

He bites his lower lip to try and half heartedly hide his pleased grin. He is not going to do me any favors. He looks up at me, pinning me with his steady, taunting gaze. I shy away almost violently from the feather light touch to my forearm. He waits a moment to see if I will flee.

"What are you doing Cherry….?"

This is your chance to run. Take it. TAKE IT!

I--… I don't want to.

I don't want to. I never wanted to. I wanted this. This contact, this freedom of touch. Of give and take and take and keep.

So I kiss him.

I catch his eyes just before I am no longer able to hold them and am almost surprised as he is that I am doing what I am doing.

It was not a tender meeting of lips. I kiss him fast and I kiss him hard. I am too caught up in the sensations to feel awkward.

It's hot. So _hot_.

The hand that was touching my arm tightens and my hands cannot remain stationary. I fall on him, catching myself on my elbows when I made the mistake? Of opening my mouth.

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I have never kissed anyone before. My instincts are the only thing supporting this crazy act of defiance. That and the thrill on both sides of me finally losing a battle that we had been waging for half a century.

His tongue slides against my lower lip and I open my mouth to taste it. As I am falling I curl my tongue against his, always curious to know what it felt like, the forked head of my Master's tongue. He laughs into our kiss and I almost waver, thinking I have done something stupid but his free hand snakes around my back and holds me against him. He pushes with more flourish into our kiss.

He tells me were to taste; running his tongue against my teeth, over the roof of my mouth, against my own inexperienced one. My gut squeezes hotly and I go where he tells me.

He tells me where to touch; guiding my free hand underneath us to press against the dip of his spine, testing me to see what I will do with the position given. He breaks our contact and leaves me panting, my lips slick with our intermingled saliva and my head heady and light with his taste in my mouth.

He leaves a trail of kisses starting at the corner of my mouth, soft nudges of lip and the occasional flick of tongue at a droplet of sweat. He continues along my jaw as I squeeze my eyes shut and focus completely on the sensation. He licks around the shell of my ear, opens his mouth and tickles me with a breath of hot air and yanks the lobe of my ear between gentle teeth. He drags his own wet lips over my neck, angling his head to kiss the sensitive bone of my throat and the dip of my clavicle, his hands discreetly undoing the first button of my shirt.

My head is screaming, kicking and crying at me to stop this. Stop it while you still can.  
My body does not listen. It has finally been given the opportunity to sate itself, to enjoy itself. To wear itself out to the point of exhaustion doing something other than killing.

It has become too difficult to suck in air through my nostrils; I open my mouth and let out long, low breaths of hot air. The hand pressed beneath our conjoined weight tingles and tightens, slipping further down and grasping at the mound of flesh. His muscles tense for a moment, then relax. I smile gratifyingly for myself and lull my head against the crook of his neck while his hands busy themselves undoing the remaining buttons of my shirt.

I feel a chilling waft of cold air against my skin and I shiver. His fingers slide under the fabric of my shirt to fold together between my shoulder blades. The weight is like iron and the heat is like a burning hot coal. I whisper his name breathily against his neck. It is the first time I have called him by it

"_Johnny…"_

I know it is not his real name. But it is a name I may call him to inform him that for now, if only, I am trying to think of us. Us. As equals. Not as Lord and vassal.

He turns his head to look at me but cannot for my head is in the way, he whispers back.

"_Chris…?_"

I cannot say more. I do not know any words that would convey what I am trying to say, I don't even know what it is that I am trying to tell him myself.

So although I am still a foreigner to the silent language of the body, I will use every bit of knowledge I have gained in my long life to tell him all night what it is he means to me. How much I worship him.

How much I love him.


End file.
